But though I was no less convinced than Stroeve that theconnection between Strickland and Blanche would enddisastrously, I did not expect the issue to take the tragicform it did. The summer came, breathless and sultry, and evenat night there was no coolness to rest one's jaded nerves.The sun-baked streets seemed to give back the heat that hadbeat down on them during the day, and the passers-by draggedtheir feet along them wearily. I had not seen Strickland for weeks.Occupied with other things, I had ceased to think ofhim and his affairs. Dirk, with his vain lamentations, hadbegun to bore me, and I avoided his society. It was a sordidbusiness, and I was not inclined to trouble myself with it further.

One morning I was working. I sat in my Pyjamas. My thoughtswandered, and I thought of the sunny beaches of Brittany andthe freshness of the sea. By my side was the empty bowl inwhich the concierge had brought me my cafe au lait and thefragment of croissant which I had not had appetite enough to eat.I heard the concierge in the next room emptying my bath.There was a tinkle at my bell, and I left her to open the door.In a moment I heard Stroeve's voice asking if I was in.Without moving, I shouted to him to come. He entered the roomquickly, and came up to the table at which I sat.

"She's killed herself," he said hoarsely.

"What do you mean?" I cried, startled.

He made movements with his lips as though he were speaking,but no sound issued from them. He gibbered like an idiot.My heart thumped against my ribs, and, I do not know why,I flew into a temper.

He made despairing gestures with his hands, but still no wordscame from his mouth. He might have been struck dumb. I donot know what came over me; I took him by the shoulders andshook him. Looking back, I am vexed that I made such a foolof myself; I suppose the last restless nights had shaken mynerves more than I knew.

"Let me sit down," he gasped at length.

I filled a glass with St. Galmier, and gave it to himto drink. I held it to his mouth as though he were a child.He gulped down a mouthful, and some of it was spilt onhis shirt-front.

"Who's killed herself?"

I do not know why I asked, for I knew whom he meant. He madean effort to collect himself.

"They had a row last night. He went away."

"Is she dead?"

"No; they've taken her to the hospital."

"Then what are you talking about?" I cried impatiently. "Whydid you say she'd killed herself?"

"Don't be cross with me. I can't tell you anything if youtalk to me like that."

I clenched my hands, seeking to control my irritation.I attempted a smile.

"I'm sorry. Take your time. Don't hurry, there's a goodfellow."

His round blue eyes behind the spectacles were ghastly withterror. The magnifying-glasses he wore distorted them.

"When the concierge went up this morning to take a letter shecould get no answer to her ring. She heard someone groaning.The door wasn't locked, and she went in. Blanche was lying onthe bed. She'd been frightfully sick. There was a bottle ofoxalic acid on the table."

Stroeve hid his face in his hands and swayed backwards andforwards, groaning.

"Damn it all, you haven't got to bear it," I cried impatiently."She's got to bear it."

"How can you be so cruel?"

"What have you done?"

"They sent for a doctor and for me, and they told the police.I'd given the concierge twenty francs, and told her to sendfor me if anything happened."

He paused a minute, and I saw that what he had to tell me wasvery hard to say.

"When I went she wouldn't speak to me. She told them to sendme away. I swore that I forgave her everything, but shewouldn't listen. She tried to beat her head against the wall.The doctor told me that I mustn't remain with her. She kepton saying, `Send him away!' I went, and waited in the studio.And when the ambulance came and they put her on a stretcher,they made me go in the kitchen so that she shouldn't know Iwas there."

While I dressed -- for Stroeve wished me to go at once withhim to the hospital -- he told me that he had arranged for hiswife to have a private room, so that she might at least bespared the sordid promiscuity of a ward. On our way heexplained to me why he desired my presence; if she stillrefused to see him, perhaps she would see me. He begged me torepeat to her that he loved her still; he would reproach herfor nothing, but desired only to help her; he made no claim onher, and on her recovery would not seek to induce her toreturn to him; she would be perfectly free.

But when we arrived at the hospital, a gaunt, cheerlessbuilding, the mere sight of which was enough to make one'sheart sick, and after being directed from this official tothat, up endless stairs and through long, bare corridors,found the doctor in charge of the case, we were told that thepatient was too ill to see anyone that day. The doctor was alittle bearded man in white, with an offhand manner.He evidently looked upon a case as a case, and anxious relativesas a nuisance which must be treated with firmness. Moreover,to him the affair was commonplace; it was just an hystericalwoman who had quarrelled with her lover and taken poison;it was constantly happening. At first he thought that Dirk wasthe cause of the disaster, and he was needlessly brusque with him.When I explained that he was the husband, anxious toforgive, the doctor looked at him suddenly, with curious,searching eyes. I seemed to see in them a hint of mockery;it was true that Stroeve had the head of the husband who is deceived.The doctor faintly shrugged his shoulders.

"There is no immediate danger," he said, in answer to ourquestioning. "One doesn't know how much she took. It may bethat she will get off with a fright. Women are constantlytrying to commit suicide for love, but generally they takecare not to succeed. It's generally a gesture to arouse pityor terror in their lover."

There was in his tone a frigid contempt. It was obvious thatto him Blanche Stroeve was only a unit to be added to thestatistical list of attempted suicides in the city of Parisduring the current year. He was busy, and could waste no moretime on us. He told us that if we came at a certain hour nextday, should Blanche be better, it might be possible for herhusband to see her.

I scarcely know how we got through that day. Stroeve couldnot bear to be alone, and I exhausted myself in efforts todistract him. I took him to the Louvre, and he pretended tolook at pictures, but I saw that his thoughts were constantlywith his wife. I forced him to eat, and after luncheon Iinduced him to lie down, but he could not sleep. He acceptedwillingly my invitation to remain for a few days in my apartment.I gave him books to read, but after a page or twohe would put the book down and stare miserably into space.During

Two or three days later Dirk Stroeve called on me."I hear you've seen Blanche," he said."How on earth did you find out?""I was told by someone who saw you sitting with them.Why didn't you tell me?""I thought it would only pain you.""What do I care if it does? You must know that I want to hearthe smallest thing about her."I waited for him to ask me questions."What does she look like?" he said."Absolutely unchanged.""Does she seem happy?"I shrugged my shoulders."How can I tell? We were in a cafe; we were playing chess;I had no opportunity to speak to her.""Oh, but